The towering city. The inbound wind cold and wet like giddy teenaged lips on the first unkempt summer night of such stumbling, desired awkwardness. The wandering mind that makes such an image.
You're lost, she says. Come back to me.
That cold air from the Lake.
I'm fine, you says, pulling back to the steadiness of the world. Where horizons are unquestionable except when drunk. And being drunk it's own unquestionable kind of obvious.
We'll be late, she says, as the boat rocks into a glassy halt at the wayside. Did you like it? She asks.
Yeah, you say. It was lovely. All the history, and all. The lines of the buildings.
You shrug when you speak, putting yourself into something that feels like a costume. Only, it has no seams, only bounded by the things you will, and won't, say. Just those ways you can't unmake in feeling. Like your heart and head are neighbors to that third party of yourself. A temp in your own way. A foreigner within yourself.
You both catch lunch with two sisters who usher you about the City's grand lines. Your tour guides, one wedded to the brother of your partners father. That brother, last on his side. Something that whispers between the orders for drinks and appetizers. The unwelcome elephant.